


A Light in the Dark

by TardisIsTheOnlyWayToTravel



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angels, Angels and Demons, Cheepers The House-Elf is not having it, Demons, Fallen Angels, Gen, Hermione comes to an Arrangement with the house-elves, Hermione is a coffee-fiend, Hermione possibly overreacts, Horcruxes, LITERALLY, Snape makes a tactical error, What Are Ethics?, and being like WHY AM I FRIENDS WITH YOU HERMIONE, and other questions Hermione needs to learn the answer to, called 'making Hermione Granger angry', demon!Hermione, first year, he's torn between happiness at having his first friend, not as dark as it might sound?, poor Neville, still not as dark as it sounds, which involves attempts to murder Voldemort and Quirrell
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-10
Updated: 2019-05-11
Packaged: 2019-11-14 21:44:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18060710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TardisIsTheOnlyWayToTravel/pseuds/TardisIsTheOnlyWayToTravel
Summary: A second chance was a second chance, and it had seemed like such aneasyoption when it had been offered to them. Be born as a human. Earn redemption. Prove that they wereworthy.(Or: Hermione Granger is a demon, given a shot at redemption via being born into a human life. She might not be as evil as some would think, but it's still not easy.)





	1. A Second Chance

**Author's Note:**

> I have been trying to write a version of this with Harry as the central character for _years_ \- it was only when I realised that I should make the central character _Hermione_ , that it all finally began to come together.
> 
> Not gonna lie, reading _[The Last Archangel: First Born](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4635096/chapters/10569648)_ by inukagome15 inspired me to dust this off and try and do something with it (go read that fic if you haven't already! It's marvelous)... Something about reading about angels reminded me of this fic...

** A Light in the Dark **

** Chapter One **

A second chance was a second chance, and it had seemed like such an _easy_ option when it had been offered to them. Be born as a human. Earn redemption. Prove that they were _worthy_.

It had seemed so easy, and they had been so desperate to regain all that they had lost. So a _they_ had become a s _he_ , one of the Fallen had become a human being, and a child had been born nine months later. Simple.

But now here she was, folded down into the body of a child, cut off from the majority of her powers, making the emptiness in her head where once she had heard the _Voice_ even more difficult to bear.

She had a new name, now, a human one; and all the other peculiar, human things, like a body and a gender and an age. She’d been ageless, before, ageless and eternal; and gender was not something that her kind possessed unless they took on a body – and even then, neither gender nor body was _them_.

She’d taken on a body before, of course, to come to Earth. She’d worn it like a badly-fitting coat, and thrown it off as soon as she was able.

But now she could feel her heart beating, her pulse fluttering with every breath she took, and she was one with her body and it was one with her, even as it betrayed her with its horrifying unfamiliarity. She was small and soft and vulnerable, where once she had been as strong and unyielding as diamond; and no matter how much her eternal soul had weathered over the aeons, no sign of those experiences marked her youthful countenance.

Only her eyes, terribly old and full of steel, gave any sign of what (and _who_ ) she really was.

* * *

Sometimes she wondered if it would have been better to remain in Hell. Better the Devil you know, and all that. But potential redemption had been offered, and her regrets were so heavy still, weighing down her soul, that in the end, she knew she wouldn’t do anything differently even if she had the choice.

But it was difficult. She was an ancient being stuck in the body of a child, and not truly human. Adults thought her adorably precocious, but didn’t regard her as one of their own, while the other children could tell that there was something _not right_ about her. And her parents – the people who were supposed to care about her – couldn’t reconcile the child they had with the one that they had wanted. 

She was too clever, too self-aware, too _angry_. And she devoured books like they held all the answers of the universe, absorbing their knowledge with an ease that shouldn’t have been possible for a child so young. It didn’t matter what the intended audience of a book was – she read _everything_ , and the scariest thing was that she understood it all. 

(Even now, as one of the oldest beings in the universe, she yearned to learn _more_.)

Her parents were bright enough people, but they’d expected a cute little girl who liked dolls and horses and reading stories about girls who went to boarding school. They hadn’t expected _her_.

But on her eleventh birthday, everything changed.

“You say that I’m a witch?” Hermione asked, feeling mildly amused as she watched her parents clutch at one another and try to recover from the sight of a grown woman turning into a cat and back, upending their orderly world into chaos. 

Hermione should have felt compassion for them, probably… but they had made such _distant_ parents that she found it difficult to dredge up anything beyond vague pity for their distress.

“Quite so,” said Professor McGonagall. She had a brisk, no-nonsense manner which had already endeared her to Hermione. “I must say, you seem to be taking this remarkably calmly.”

Hermione only shrugged, and sipped at her cup of tea. She’d made up a fresh pot for herself and the Professor while her parents had been busy gibbering over Professor McGonagall’s little display of magical talent. Hermione was fairly certain that Professor McGonagall had been amused at Hermione playing hostess while her parents were still trying to overcome their terror.

“There are more things in Heaven and Earth,” Hermione said in response, deliberately vague. “Why should one of them not be magic?”

She didn’t say that she’d already known about the existence of the magical world. The powers of witches and wizards were dramatically watered-down, when compared their Nephilim ancestors from thousands of years ago, enough so that they were no real threat to either Heaven or Hell. Perhaps it wasn’t surprising that Hermione, with her powers almost completely bound, registered as one of them.

“But – but magic _can’t_ be real,” her father protested weakly. Hermione gave a snort.

“If that’s what you think, then you obviously haven’t been paying attention.” She turned back to Professor McGonagall. “But you didn’t just come here to tell me that I’m a witch, did you?”

“I did not, no,” said Professor McGonagall, giving her a look of approval. Evidently the feeling of liking was mutual. “I came here to offer you a place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.”

“What?” said Hermione’s parents in unison.

“Do tell,” said Hermione.

The spiel that followed was… illuminating. Hermione had known of the witches’ and wizards’ secret world – she’d been summoned by them from time to time, after all. But things had no doubt changed in the centuries since she had last walked the Earth, and she couldn’t help feeling curious to find out exactly how so.

Her parents, meanwhile, looked like they were struggling to take everything in. Finally Hermione’s mother asked, “Is this why Hermione’s always been so…” before trailing off, and making a helpless sound.

Professor McGonagall looked sternly at Hermione’s parents over the top of her glasses.

“.. _so_ …?”

But it was Hermione and not her parents who answered Professor McGonagall’s question.

“Intellectually precocious,” said Hermione, with a sharp-edged little smile. “Different. _Peculiar_ for a child my age.” 

_ Wrong _ , she didn’t say, but knew that the implication was there.

“I see,” said Professor McGonagall, her stern look turning to one of deep disapproval as she stared at Hermione’s parents. 

They had the grace to look uncomfortable, but didn’t refute Hermione’s words. 

“In that case, you may do well in Ravenclaw, the House of wit and learning,” said Professor McGonagall. She’d already explained the House system. “They prize academic learning and a thirst for knowledge.”

“Hmm,” was all that Hermione said, because she didn’t think it would be that easy. 

“Of course, you may be Sorted somewhere else entirely – one never knows until the Sorting Ceremony.”

“How does that work?” asked Hermione.

Professor McGonagall smiled.

“Traditionally, the method by which you are Sorted remains are secret until the ceremony itself begins, on your first night at Hogwarts.”

Hermione frowned, but she could tell that Professor McGonagall would share no more on the subject. Hermione moved on to her next question.

“Where can I read more about the wizarding world?”

“There is a bookstore in Diagon Alley,” said Professor McGonagall, and she explained what Diagon Alley was and how to get there. “But I would not go venturing through London on your own. It isn’t safe for someone your age.”

Hermione smiled politely, and thought of the sword she usually kept tucked away in other dimensions, and which even now would spring into existence if she called for it. Anyone who thought that because she was young, she made an easy target, was _extremely mistaken_.

“Don’t worry, Professor. I know how to take care of myself.”

Professor McGonagall looked at her. Hermione looked back.

She wasn’t sure what the woman saw in her gaze, but eventually Professor McGonagall sighed. 

“Perhaps, but I would be careful, Miss Granger. The magical world holds more dangers than you yet know.”

Hermione gave another polite smile. Words of power curled beneath her tongue, waiting only to be spoken. She didn’t speak them.

“Understood, Professor.”

* * *

Hermione went to Diagon Alley, of course.

She stuck out like a sore thumb in her jeans and woollen coat: everyone else was swanning around in wizards’ robes and cloaks. But Hermione was capable of summoning up the poise of someone older than she looked, and no matter what glances she attracted for her attire, no one actually _said_ anything unpleasant while she was within hearing distance.

Hermione peered into all the shops in Diagon Alley, and stopped to have her money converted into wizard money at Gringotts, but the only shop she actually bought anything from was the bookstore. To her delight, it contained all kinds of heavy, dusty old tomes, which tingled with magic when she ran her fingers over the covers.

But then, Diagon Alley itself was _saturated_ with magic. Hermione drank it in, and realised for the first time how much she’d missed that sense of ambient power. Her home in the suburbs felt sterile and bare by comparison; the only power there was Hermione’s own.

Hermione knew that witches and wizards couldn’t sense their own power the way that she could. They were limited by human perception, and while Hermione was bound near-inextricably to her human body, she still possessed her… well, it wasn’t _sight_ , exactly, but no human language contained the words for the form of extra-sensory perception that Hermione had, so _sight_ might as well do. She could _see_ the magic around her, and use it even without a wand, unlike true witches and wizards.

Hermione decided to buy _A History of Magic_ with her converted pocket money, as well as _The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts_. Both seemed useful.

She stood on tip-toe (she was so _tiny_ now, and it grated – once she had been as towering as any skyscraper) and reached for the book at the top of a tall stack, tucked away in a cobwebbed corner. The book’s title was _A Compendium of the Dark Ones._

Hermione wasn’t silly enough to think the shopkeeper would allow her to buy it. It was unlikely the shopkeeper even knew that it was there: this book had been sitting in the corner for an awfully long time. Instead, Hermione stood in the dark and dusty corner, her other two books held in the crook of her elbow as she paged through _A Compendium of the Dark Ones._

There were a lot of familiar names in there, followed by a description of the kind of magics they could assist with and what their specialities were. Hermione kept paging through until her own true name leapt out at her. 

_ They are willing to teach those with the patience and aptitude to learn,  _ said the description. _Their speciality is arithmantic magic; it is said that they do not particularly distinguish between wizards and muggles, being willing to teach the latter the mathematical sciences. It is said that they may also be capable of gifting mortals with the power of Parseltongue... it has even been rumoured that Salazar Slytherin himself obtained the gift in this fashion._

__

Hermione smiled darkly at the mention of Salazar Slytherin. He had been a bitter, angry man… but his grievances had had some justice to them, even if the way he chose to address those grievances did not. After all, Salazar’s own sister had died at the hands of magic-fearing muggles… even if no one seemed to remember that, these days.

Hermione had been happy enough to teach him, once she’d seen the grief and need for vengeance in his eyes. Like called to like. He’d been clever, Salazar, but in the end his bitterness had swallowed him up – not to mention the dark magic Hermione had taught him how to use. She’d warned him: but he’d cared more about achieving his aims than maintaining the state of his own soul and sanity, and in the end the cost had been all three.

Hermione shut _A Compendium of the Dark Ones,_ and put it back onto the nearest shelf. It was good to know that she had not been forgotten, given all the witches and wizards she had aided over the millennia. With the books she wanted to buy still sitting in the crook of her arm, Hermione went up to the front counter to pay for them.

“Muggleborn, are you?” asked the shopkeeper, eyeing Hermione’s jeans and coat.

“More or less.”

The shopkeeper said nothing more about it, only smiled kindly and wrapped Hermione’s purchases in paper, but Hermione could feel the glances of the other customers on her as she picked up her wrapped parcel and left the bookstore. 

Outside in the street she hesitated, feeling torn. Then she turned away from the direction of Knockturn Alley and began heading back towards the entry back into muggle London.

She had some reading to do.


	2. September First

** Chapter Two **

The next few months seemed all too long, as Hermione counted down the days until September first. In the normal scheme of things, that time would have passed in the blink of an eye – but she lived a human life, now, and every day in between her and Hogwarts was another day that she had to put up with her hostile, non-magical classmates… or worse, her parents.

Hermione’s parents seemed to have assumed that any differences between Hermione and normal children were because Hermione was a witch, and that this made her some kind of eldritch figure who was not-quite-knowable to ordinary mortal minds. 

While completely wrong about witches, as far as a description of Hermione went it was rather apt, and so Hermione didn’t attempt to disabuse them of it. Instead she watched the gulf between her and them widen, and wasn’t sure if she wanted to stop it.

She still had no idea what she was supposed to do with this _second chance_ , no idea how to go about _redeeming_ _herself_ in her Creator’s eyes. She had been what she was for so long… she’d been Fallen for longer than she’d been anything else, by now. She’d spent more time in Hell than in Heaven, and understood its denizens far better than the holy ones in their distant silver citadel. 

Trying to _do good_ was foreign to her, was the point. Her sense of compassion had more or less been beaten out of her a long time ago, and these days she mostly held herself together with spite and fury. 

But she’d said that she’d _try_ – that she’d do anything to win her way back into Heaven – and she’d meant what she’d said. Which meant figuring out how to succeed at her task before her fleeting, mortal lifespan ran out and it was, to use the mortal term, _game over_.

Maybe that was why, on the train to Hogwarts some months later, Hermione found herself assisting a boy with a hesitant, brow-beaten demeanour to find his missing toad. 

Her parents had dropped her off at Kings Cross some time earlier, and Hermione – already clad in her school robes – had rolled her luggage along until she’d reached Platform Nine and Three Quarters, stepping through the magical barrier all alone.

No one had paid her a second glance as she boarded the train. Older students pushed past her, barely missing her with their own luggage, but Hermione went on walking until she found a nearly-empty compartment.

That was where she found the boy with the missing toad. He was sitting there with an expression so forlorn that it was obvious he was attempting not to cry, and that roused Hermione’s curiosity enough that she stopped to talk to him.

“Is something wrong?” Hermione asked, and the boy jumped and looked up from where he’d been staring at the floor.

“I’ve lost my toad,” he said.

“Your toad? Do you perchance mean your familiar?” asked Hermione, dragging her luggage into the compartment and shutting the door behind her.

The boy nodded.

“His name’s Trevor. He was a gift, because I got into Hogwarts, but I’ve lost him _already_.”

Hermione stayed silent for a moment. Offering her help without a price attached did not come naturally to her, but… this was a _child_.

“Come along then,” she said. “I’ll help you find him.”

The boy’s face brightened a little. 

“Really?”

“Certainly. I’m Hermione Granger, by the way. Who are you?”

“Oh – Neville. Neville Longbottom,” said the boy, and so off they went to search for his missing toad.

Most of the students were polite enough in saying that they hadn’t seen Neville’s toad, but some were downright rude. Finally, Hermione opened a compartment door near the end of the train, and entered it to find a red-headed boy and a dark-haired boy whose broken glasses were held together with tape.

“Neville here has lost a toad,” she said. “Have either of you seen one?”

Both boys shook their heads. But Hermione stood still, her gaze fixed on the small lightning-bolt shaped scar on the dark-haired boy’s forehead.

Hermione had read about Harry Potter’s curse scar. Apparently, it was the only mark left on him after the unsuccessful attempt by Voldemort to kill him. Hermione hadn’t thought much of it at the time.

Now, staring at that scar, two things were immediately apparent. One was that the scar had taken the form of the rune which meant _victory_. But it was the second thing which held Hermione transfixed.

That _thing_ was the small, incredibly malevolent sliver of soul sitting within that lightning-bolt scar, held back from affecting its host by a protection which Hermione had only rarely seen.

The presence of that soul-sliver meant that someone had _purposefully mutilated_ their own immortal soul, an act which filled even all but the worst of demons with horror and incomprehension. Hermione had known that the occasional, exceptionally-dark wizard tried to do so, of course, in an attempt to extend their mortal lifespan by tying themselves to the mortal plane. 

But she had never before encountered such wizards herself _,_ nor the results of their attempts. Looking at that seething fragment of broken soul, Hermione’s normally-iron stomach threatened to rebel as her human body responded to the horror and disgust she felt at the sight.

It had to be part of _Voldemort’s_ soul, Hermione knew. How else could it have ended up in Harry Potter’s forehead – in his curse scar, no less? But that raised further, disturbing questions – as did the small size of the soul fragment. It was far, far less than the half a soul that Hermione would have expected from a soul-severing… which begged the question, _had Voldemort severed his soul more than once?_

The answer which logically followed that question shook Hermione to the core. How could _anyone_ bear to damage themselves so profoundly?

Looking uncomfortable, Harry Potter reached up to ruffle his fringe so that it covered his scar. Belatedly, Hermione realised that she had been staring. The boy probably thought that she was some kind of star-struck fan, to look so intently at his scar. 

Hermione redirected her gaze from Harry’s forehead to his eyes, still feeling incredibly shaken. 

“My apologies,” she said, because she wasn’t about to ask an eleven year old boy _are you aware of the malevolent sliver of soul in your scar?_ “I didn’t mean to stare.”

“That’s okay,” said Harry, still looking uncomfortable. “Everyone else does.”

“That hardly makes it _okay_ ,” said Hermione tartly. “People should have better manners.”

“Who are you, anyway?” the red-haired boy asked.

“I’m Hermione Granger. This is Neville Longbottom,” Hermione added, gestured to Neville. “As I said, we’re looking for his toad.”

“Well, we haven’t seen one,” said Harry. “Sorry.”

Neville’s shoulders slumped.

“But this is the last compartment, and we still haven’t found Trevor.”

“Cheer up,” said Hermione. “Perhaps he’ll show up among someone’s luggage, once we get to Hogwarts.”

“You think so?” Neville asked, with a thread of hope in his voice.

“It’s quite possible,” said Hermione. She turned back to Harry and the red-headed boy, deliberately not looking at the fragment of soul in Harry’s scar. “Sorry to have bothered you.”

On the walk back to her own compartment with Neville, Hermione thought furiously about what to do about the fact that Harry was what mortal wizards termed a _horcrux_. She’d never heard of a living person being host to such a thing, not in all her aeons of existence.

Perhaps this was her chance to prove herself worthy – by somehow removing the soul-sliver from Harry, and ensuring that Voldemort could not return. But she had no idea how to go about such a thing without harming the child, and besides: what of the other horcruxes Voldemort had to have created? Hermione had no idea where to even _begin_ searching for them.

“Are you alright?” Neville ventured to ask, drawing her out of her thoughts.

Hermione blinked, and realised that her expression was set in a frown of deep concentration. Hermione smoothed it out.

“Oh, yes. I was merely thinking.”

They reached their own compartment, and let themselves in. Hermione took a seat by the window, and Neville took one opposite her.

There was an awkward silence.

Hermione tried to think of an appropriately childish thing to open conversation with. 

“So,” she said finally. “Magic. It’s all very exciting.”

That made Neville blink. He hesitated, but then said, “I don’t mean to be rude, but are you muggleborn?”

“Technically,” said Hermione, and felt amusement as Neville’s brow furrowed at her cryptic response. “I’m the only witch in my family, at least. I was very glad to receive my Hogwarts letter – although I can’t say the same for my parents,” she added, with a faint smirk.

Neville looked confused.

“Why not?”

“Oh, because they thought they understood how the universe worked,” said Hermione, with a wave of her hand, “that it was orderly and logical and perfectly predictable. Discovering that it was otherwise came as a horrible shock. They’re still not over it, I think.”

“Oh.”

“What about you?” asked Hermione, eyeing Neville with vague interest, because she thought that she could guess at least some of his story. He was such a _timid_ boy – no self-confidence at all. “Did you know you were magical?”

“Yes,” said Neville, and then, “well no, not exactly – I’m from a wizarding family, but my family weren’t sure that I had any magic at all. My Great Uncle Algie kept trying to take me by surprise and force some magic out of me – he pushed me off the end of the Blackpool Pier once, I nearly drowned–”

“ _He did what_.” 

Hermione sat bolt-upright, and if she hadn’t been bound to her human body then her wings would have flared in fury. Because she might be a demon, but a child was a _child_.

As it was, Neville shrank back in his seat at her sudden change in tone and demeanour, and Hermione took a deep breath and tried to make her expression less terrifying.

“Go on.”

“…and he, er, dangled me out of a window by my ankles when I was eight, but my Great Aunt Enid offered him a meringue tart and he accidentally let go? Only I bounced,” said Neville, watching Hermione nervously. “They were all really pleased that I turned out to be magical after all.”

Hermione took a deep breath, then another. Then:

“As soon as I have learned how, I am sending a Howler to your relatives. Each and every one of them,” said Hermione.

Neville looked horrified at the idea.

“But why?”

“Because no fit and proper guardian would allow such attempts,” Hermione hissed. “It’s _barbaric_ , Neville. They’d rather risk having a dead child than accept that they might have a family member who isn’t magical? That’s terrible, and there’s no other word for it.”

Neville looked as though he’d never thought of his situation in such blunt terms before.

“Oh,” he said, and looked upset. 

Hermione shifted uncomfortably in her seat as Neville looked about ready to cry, again. She hadn’t meant to hurt his feelings, but then, she’d never been very good at dealing with human emotions. 

She hadn’t been able to help the protective surge of rage when she’d heard how little his family valued his life, but now she wondered if it would have been better not to have said anything. It looked as though her words had devastated the boy.

Neville wiped his eyes on his sleeve, and tried not to sniffle. 

“I’m sure that your family are wrong,” said Hermione after a moment, because she could tell at a glance that Neville was reasonably magical. More so than many of the children around them. “You probably have a lot of magic. You can’t force these things, you know. Magic is one of those things that has to come naturally.”

“How do you know? If you’re muggleborn,” asked Neville, with doubt in his voice.

“Oh, I’ve known some magical people before,” said Hermione, vaguely. “Just because my _parents_ aren’t magical doesn’t mean _I_ didn’t know. Also, I’ve read all of my textbooks already, so I know an awful lot.” 

“ _All_ _of them?”_ Neville looked torn between dismay and awe.

Hermione’s mouth twitched in amusement.

“Yes, Neville. _All_ of them.”

Neville appeared unduly impressed by this feat. 

Hermione, for her part, only tried not to laugh. 


	3. The Sorting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am tired and it is late, so there may be errors in this chapter, but I wanted to get it posted tonight. Enjoy.

** Chapter Three **

The rest of the journey to Hogwarts was fairly quiet. Neville didn’t say much, lapsing back into distress over his family. Hermione didn’t push him, instead pulling a book out of her luggage and curling up by the window to read.

After a while, when Neville seemed to be doing a little better, Hermione said, “You know, I’m not the child my parents wanted.”

Neville looked up.

“What do you mean?” His voice was quiet.

“I’m too clever, for a start,” said Hermione. “And I’m not very good at dealing with other people. I tend to hurt their feelings.” She paused. “And I meant it when I said that my parents weren’t happy about my being a witch. I’m sure they’re wondering why they couldn’t have a nice, _normal_ child, instead of one with magic.”

Neville looked baffled by this. Hardly surprising, given how disappointed his family had obviously been when he’d appeared to be non-magical himself.

“But there is nothing wrong with me, the way I am,” said Hermione, “and I have no intention of letting them make me think otherwise, just because I’m not what they wanted. Do you understand?”

There was a long silence. Hermione waited.

“Yes,” said Neville finally. “I think so.” Then: “Thank you. I think.”

“You’re welcome,” said Hermione, and she went back to reading her book. But a little while later Neville offered her a chocolate frog, and Hermione knew that he’d taken her words in the spirit in which they had been meant. 

* * *

The Sorting was… interesting.

Apparently all that the first-years had to do was put on a hat. Hermione watched as one by one, her fellow students tried the Sorting Hat on, and were Sorted into their respective Houses.

It had to be some form of mind-reading spell. Hermione wondered what the best thing would be to do about it. Her own mind was shielded, of course – all of the minds of the Fallen were, by necessity – and she wondered if she ought to let some of her shielding go, enough that the Sorting Hat could get a glimpse of her mind. 

But then, the Sorting Hat was designed to read _human_ minds – and trying to read Hermione’s might damage it irreparably…

Hermione didn’t have time to think about it any longer, because the name _Granger, Hermione_ was called at that moment. At Professor McGonagall’s nod, Hermione walked forward and sat on the stool. The Sorting Hat was placed on her head, and it slid down over her eyes, blocking out the sight of the Great Hall.

Hermione let the outermost layer of her shielding fall, and waited to see what happened next.

_ Goodness me,  _ said a voice in Hermione’s ear. _What to do about you, hmm? Trying to read your mind is like trying to read that of a star. Bright and shining and utterly unintelligible._

__

Hermione pushed a thought outside her shields, transforming it into English as it went.

_ What do you expect me to do about it? _

__

The Sorting Hat _hmm_ ed.

_ You’re obviously not human. Not mortal at all, I should think. So what brings you here? _

__

Hermione hesitated.

_ Do you have any privacy charms binding you to keep my thoughts a secret? _

__

_ Oh yes,  _ said the Sorting Hat. _I cannot tell another soul what I have seen in your mind – or have not, in this case – whether they are living or dead. I am more secure than the confessional._

__

Hermione twitched.

_ You’re hardly a holy object,  _ she thought back, her mental voice sharp with reprimand. _Do not indicate otherwise._

__

_ Ah,  _ the Sorting Hat murmured. _My apologies. But my question still stands, should you care to answer it._

__

_ I was given a chance at redemption,  _ thought Hermione. _A chance to prove that I am capable of doing better things than I have become accustomed to. I chose to take it._

__

_ Hmm,  _ said the Sorting Hat. _Ambitious, then. And brave. Very brave indeed, to take that chance._

__

_ Desperate,  _ Hermione countered irritably, because she hadn’t been brave in a very long time. _Not brave._

__

_ I disagree. I think that I had best put you in– _

__

“GRYFFINDOR!” the Hat roared, not in Hermione’s ear this time, and a cheer went up. Scowling, Hermione waited for Professor McGonagall to lift the Sorting Hat off her head, and stomped off to the Gryffindor table.

Some time later, _Longbottom, Neville_ was called, and Neville walked forward on wobbly legs to sit on the stool. 

Several minutes passed. Then the Hat shouted, “GRYFFINDOR!” just as it had for Hermione.

Neville appeared profoundly relieved – so much so, in fact, that he didn’t give Professor McGonagall a chance to take the Sorting Hat off him, instead jogging off to the Gryffindor table while still wearing it.

Professor McGonagall called him back, amid laughter from the other students, and Neville handed the Sorting Hat over with a red face before slinking back to the Gryffindor table and taking a seat next to Hermione.

Hermione wondered if, by the standard of eleven year olds, she and Neville were now friends. That seemed suspiciously easy and simple, but then, humans could be unpredictable that way. 

There were worse _friends_ she could have, she supposed.

Once the Sorting was over, the Headmaster gave a brief speech which was probably supposed to be amusing, but which didn’t amuse Hermione at all. When he sat down, the bare table in front of Hermione was suddenly covered with an absolute feast.

Several of the other, genuinely muggleborn children gasped in surprise and wonder, but Hermione didn’t. She already knew about of house-elves, of course – more so than the wizards did, probably. She was old enough to remember the original pact between the wizards and the outcast fae, who later earned the moniker of _house-elves…_

…as well as old enough to see how the terms of that agreement had become corrupted, over the last two thousand years or so, both parties utterly ignorant of how far they’d fallen from the original pact.

The thought made Hermione scowl again. Demons, whatever else you might say about them, _always_ followed the letter of their agreements. They might have fallen into ruin, but they yet remembered the days when they had been angels, and some part of that nature still remained, deep down. 

“What are you thinking about?” Neville asked, breaking into Hermione’s train of thought. “You’re frowning.”

“House-elves,” said Hermione.

Her cryptic answer earned her confused looks from Neville and from the older boy who was sitting to her right, but Hermione didn’t elaborate. Instead, she listened in to the conversation going on among the other first-years at the table, serving herself some food as she did so.

The children were talking about their family backgrounds, and whether they were _pureblood_ , _half-blood_ , or _muggleborn_ – as though those categories held any validity whatsoever. Magic was magic; it jumped around, disappearing and reappearing in family lines, and it didn’t matter whether someone was pureblood or muggleborn – they all had the same ancestry, whether they knew it or not.

But Hermione said nothing, because the wizards seemed to have forgotten their semi-divine origins; and she wasn’t about to be the one who reminded them.

He gaze wandered over to the head table, and Hermione stiffened at the sight of the man wearing the turban – or rather, what she could sense _under_ the turban. 

A fragment of soul, far bigger than the one in Harry’s scar – and from the way it was writhing around, tendrils spreading throughout the body of the man in the turban, this soul fragment had nothing to hold it back from slowly taking full control.

Hermione felt her expression twist in revulsion, and did her best to blank her face before anyone noticed. 

For the soul fragment to have taken hold so thoroughly, its host must have given consent to the possession, which only proved that Hermione would never cease to be amazed by the foolish things humans would do.

“Who’s that man in the turban?” she asked the older boy who was seated on her right, interrupting the conversation he was having with the person sitting on the other side of him.

The older boy frowned in reproof, but answered, “Professor Quirrell. He’s teaching Defence this year.”

“He used to teach Muggle Studies,” said the boy two seats down. “But I suppose he decided to risk the curse.”

“What curse?” asked Hermione, her eyes narrowing.

The boy sitting next to her sighed in annoyance.

“There’s no proof of a curse – it’s simply one of Hogwarts wilder rumours.”

“If it’s just a rumour, Percy, then why hasn’t anyone had the same Defence professor two years in a row, for who knows how many years?” the boy two seats down pointed out. “It’s got to be a curse on the Defence position.”

“Hmm,” said Hermione, and turned away from the beginning argument to see whether the other first years were still talking about their families. She did so just in time to hear one boy (who’d earlier introduced himself as Dean) ask, “What about you, Neville?”

“I was raised by my Gran. She’s a witch.” Neville’s voice was subdued, and Hermione thought that it was probably because he was thinking of Hermione’s words on the train. He didn’t say anything more about his family.

“But what about your parents–” someone began to ask, and Hermione saw Neville tense. 

Honestly, couldn’t these children perform even basic deductions? 

To be a first-year now, Neville had to have been born sometime near the end of Voldemort’s rise, when people were disappearing or being found dead with frightening frequency. Surely the children could guess from that context why Neville was being raised by his grandmother, rather than his parents?

Seeing the look on Neville’s face, Hermione decided that it would cost her nothing to intervene.

“Both my parents are muggles,” said Hermione loudly, before Neville was forced to respond. “Neither were very happy to discover that I’m a witch.”

Further down the table, Harry hadn’t seemed to be paying much attention. But at Hermione’s words he looked up, his gaze suddenly intent as it focused on her.

“What do you mean?” asked Lavender, her brow crinkled. “Why wouldn’t they be happy? You’re _magical_.”

“They would have rather had a _normal_ child, one more like them,” said Hermione. “Because obviously magic is strange and abnormal.”

Some of the children looked offended. But Dean nodded in agreement.

“It was a bit much for my Mum, at first. She came around, but it was a nasty shock.”

The students from magical families looked as though they couldn’t understand that at all. Hermione huffed.

“ _Honestly_. Imagine if you’d been born a squib instead of a witch or wizard, and think about how your parents would have reacted once they realised. It’s rather like that for some muggle parents, only in reverse.”

_ With a certain amount of fear or unease thrown in _ , Hermione didn’t say, because if the muggleborn children hadn’t picked up on that fact, then she wasn’t about to point it out. Not without a good reason to do so, at least.

Her words made some of the children look suddenly pensive. But at least one of the pureblood children looked even more offended than before, clearly thinking something along the lines of: _how dare muggles consider witches and wizards abnormal!_ Hermione refrained, somehow, from rolling her eyes.

The conversation moved on, and Hermione went back to listening in without contributing. But Harry was still looking at her, his expression difficult to read. Hermione raised one eyebrow at him (a skill she’d carefully cultivated over years for precisely this kind of situation) and he seemed to realise he’d been staring, and hurriedly looked away.

Hermione filed that away to think about later.

After dinner, the prefects guided the first-year Gryffindors to the common room, told them where to find the dormitories and bathrooms, gave them a basic rundown of Hogwarts' rules, and sent them off to bed.

Hermione found herself sharing a dormitory with Parvati and Lavender, and sighed. Neither girl had seemed particularly intellectually-inclined, and Lavender’s question from earlier had been especially clueless. But they were only children, so Hermione would do her best to be patient with them.

“I’ve never gotten to share a room before!” said Lavender. “Won’t this be fun?”

Parvati’s smile was wan, even though she made an effort.

“Normally I share with Padma. Being without her just feels… odd.”

“Because you’re twins?” said Lavender. “What’s that like?”

Parvati paused to think about it. 

“It means never being alone – at least until now,” she said eventually, sounding sad. “I never thought I’d be Sorted into a different House from Padma. We’ve always done everything together.”

“Well, you’ve got us, now,” said Lavender.

Parvati’s expression said that this wasn’t at all the same, but that she appreciated Lavender’s efforts to cheer her up.

Hermione changed into her pyjamas, not exactly ignoring the conversation, but not really participating either. She climbed into her bed and drew the curtains, as the two girls continued to talk.

As the lights went out, signalling that Parvati and Lavender had finally climbed into their own respective beds, Hermione found her thoughts turning over her earlier observations about Professor Quirrell.

Having him in the castle, with Voldemort sharing his body, was a danger to the students. Hermione would have to do something about it, without betraying the fact that she had knowledge no ordinary, mortal first-year student would have. 

Hermione continued thinking about the problem until her thoughts dimmed, and her mind slipped into sleep.


	4. Hermione Meets the House-Elves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter may be my favourite so far.

** Chapter Four **

****

Hermione woke early the next morning, in as bad a mood as she usually was when she first woke up. Hermione had always found _sleep_ a profoundly unnerving experience. It was the slow shut-down of the mind leading to the complete absence of consciousness, until awareness finally returned sometime the next morning. 

There was nothing she could do to stop herself from falling into sleep, even though she’d tried; no way to ameliorate it and retain partial awareness. Every time that tiredness dragged her under, she was always terrified that this gap in consciousness would be her last. Sleep just didn’t _happen_ to demons – or to angels for that matter. It was a purely physical, biological phenomenon. 

Hermione always woke feeling much more well-rested than before she’d slept, which only made her even more angry about it. She knew that most humans had a kind of false awareness during sleep, sometimes, which they called _dreams_ ; Hermione had entered such mortal phantasms before, either to torment, or talk with, their dreamer. But even now, bound to her human body though she was, Hermione did not dream. 

She was glad of it. Sleep alone was terrifying enough, without her brain inventing false scenarios to make her question what was and wasn’t real. How humans could know that _it was_ _all just a dream_ , Hermione had no idea. After all, they believed in the dream while they were dreaming – what made _waking_ so different from _dreaming?_

Hermione stalked down to breakfast, and announced to all and sundry, “I need coffee.”

“You’re eleven,” said Percy, looking disapproving.

“ _Twelve_ , thank you very much,” said Hermione, instead of saying _I am older than the universe._ She looked with disfavour upon the pitcher of goopy orange fluid sitting nearby. “What is that?”

“Pumpkin juice,” offered an older student, looking amused.

“Ugh,” Hermione muttered, because only witches and wizards would find that an appropriate breakfast beverage. “ _Wizards_.”

“You’re a witch,” Percy pointed out, looking both offended _and_ disapproving, now. “That makes you one of us.”

Hermione supposed that his words were, in a sense, true. It didn’t help her mood any.

“In that case, I am going to go and find a more suitable beverage than pumpkin juice, _elsewhere_ ,” she announced, slinging her book-bag over one shoulder and marching from the Great Hall, ignoring the bemused stares.

Hermione had never been to Hogwarts before now, but she’d known another demon who had managed to hitch a ride in, once – shortly before being detected and unpleasantly banished from the mortal plane – and they’d shared a secret or two with her. Hermione went into the Entry Hall and turned left.

There was a long corridor there, and Hermione walked straight up to the portrait of the sliver fruit bowl, and tickled the painted pear that was inside it. 

The pear turned into a green handle, and Hermione opened the door to the kitchens, and stepped through.

“Greetings,” she said loudly.

The house-elves all turned to look at her. As one, their expressions changed.

Hermione threw her hands out. 

** “I mean no harm,”  ** she said in the True Speech, her mouth forming syllables which shouldn’t have been humanly possible, each word she spoke resonating with enough power to make the room shake. **“I swear by my Creator.”**

****

From the suddenly wide-eyed expressions that the house-elves wore, and the way that at least three of them froze in the act of reaching for: one, a skillet; two, a large carving knife; and three, the fireplace poker, none of them had been expecting _that_.

“I mean no harm,” Hermione reiterated, this time in an ordinary, mortal voice, speaking only English. “ _Please_. I’m tired and I’m human and I’m hungry, and all I want is a morning beverage which isn’t pumpkin juice.”

There was a long silence. Finally one of the house-elves said, their voice cautious: “We is not sensing anyone else in there with you.”

“It’s only me,” Hermione confirmed. “I was born into this body. It’s never been anyone else in here.”

Slowly, warily, the house-elves went back to doing whatever they’d been doing before Hermione had walked in. Only one house-elf remained, her gaze on Hermione.

“I is Cheepers,” she said. “What is your name?”

“Hermione Granger.”

Cheepers gave Hermione a _look_.

“That’s not what I’s asking.”

“Well, that’s all you’re getting,” said Hermione, and then carefully gentled her voice when the house-elves’ hands twitched towards weapons again. “Really, a promise that I mean no harm to anyone in the castle, except for Voldemort’s soul-fragment and its host, ought to be enough.”

Someone dropped a plate. Many wide, alarmed eyes turned to stare in Hermione’s direction.

“ _You-Know-Who_ is in the castle?” squeaked one of the house-elves.

“Part of him is sharing a body with a professor,” said Hermione, and rolled her eyes when one of the house-elves nearly swooned. “Yes, yes, I’m sure you find that terrifying, but as he’s currently a bodiless wraith subsisting on the magic and energy granted him by his host, I’m really not all that intimidated.”

Cheepers gave Hermione a long, piercing stare.

“And what is you planning to do about it, hmm?”

“I’m planning to destroy this part of Voldemort, and, since Quirrell willingly chose to share his body with an undead Dark Lord, probably him as well. They’re both threats to the children. And I take threats to children very, very seriously.”

Cheepers looked at Hermione for a long moment. Then she grinned. Her teeth were rounded and human-like, and so Hermione shouldn’t have been reminded of the sharp, serrated smiles of Cheepers’ wild fae ancestors. But Hermione was, all the same. 

Hermione found herself smiling back, her smile very similar to the toothy one on Cheepers’ face.

“Good,” said the house-elf. “House-elves is not being able to act against a professor, but the students’ safety is everything to us. You gets rid of You-Know-Who, and house-elves is not telling Professor Dumblydore about the demon sneaking into Hogwarts, yes?”

“Technically, I _am_ a student. I was invited in,” said Hermione primly. “But that seems acceptable. Although you realise it may take some time to achieve such a thing, I’m sure.”

“You has until the end of this year,” said Cheepers. “I am thinking that should be enough time.”

“Agreed,” said Hermione. “I’m glad that we could come to an arrangement. Now… do you have anything I can drink _besides_ pumpkin juice?”

* * *

Breakfast was almost over when Hermione wandered back into the Great Hall, feeling much more content after the cup of coffee she’d wheedled out of the house-elves. She took a seat next to Neville.

“Good morning,” said Hermione.

“Oh! We were given our class schedules,” said Neville, and he dug out a folded, slightly dog-eared piece of parchment from one robe pocket and handed it to Hermione. “I told Professor McGonagall that I’d give you yours.”

Hermione sent him a wide-eyed look.

“…thank you,” she said finally, reminding herself that she was surrounded by humans, and that small and unprompted acts of kindness did not seem as strange to humans as they did to demons.

Neville smiled, a little shyly, and went back to eating his breakfast.

Hermione had already eaten her fill in the kitchens, so she unfolded her class schedule and skimmed it. 

First up was – and Hermione glared at her schedule – was Defence Against the Dark Arts class with Professor Quirrell, which meant that Hermione would have to spend the entire lesson pretending to pay attention, when she could see the life-sucking, leech-like soul fragment sharing Professor Quirrell’s body. 

But everyone was finishing their breakfast and heading off to their first class, so Hermione put her schedule into her book-bag, reminded Neville not to forget his own schedule where it was sitting on the Gryffindor table, and began making her way to class.

“Wait for me!” Neville called, and so Hermione stopped.

“You’d better hurry up, then,” said Hermione, but she waited until Neville had all his things in order before resuming her journey to the Defence classroom, this time with Neville at her side.

The Defence classroom stank of garlic, which someone whispered was to ward off vampires, despite how ridiculous that suggestion was. Worse, quite aside from sharing head-space with Voldemort, Quirrell turned out to be an abysmal teacher, hardly deserving of the title of _Professor_.

He got his facts wrong several times during the course of the first lesson, and finally Hermione became fed up. The next time that Quirrell said something inaccurate, she spoke up.

“Actually, I think you’ll find that’s not true.”

Quirrell stopped, mid-stammer. Everyone turned to look at Hermione.

“I b-beg your p-pardon, Miss…?”

“Granger,” said Hermione. “And according to our textbook, you’re wrong.”

“Textbooks are n-not always c-correct, Miss G-Granger,” said Quirrell.

“Perhaps not, but by all accounts this one is reliable as a source,” Hermione shot back immediately. She gave a thin smile. “Which rather suggests that it is your knowledge at fault, Professor.”

There was a long, fraught silence. Next to Hermione, Neville was shrinking down into his seat, staring at her with incredulity for her nerve. He wasn’t the only one.

“T-twenty points from G-Gryffindor for insubordination,” said Quirrell at last, and there was something in his voice that wasn’t pleasant at all.

Hermione only looked back at him, completely unfazed.

As soon as class ended and they’d left the classroom, Neville blurted out, “I can see why you were Sorted into Gryffindor. I can’t believe you dared tell a _professor_ they were wrong!”

“I didn’t come here to receive a sub-standard education,” was all that Hermione said in answer, walking briskly to their next class.

“Was he really wrong?” Neville asked, hurrying to catch up with her. 

“Several times. If he doesn’t wish to be shown up by a first-year, then he should get his facts straight. Clearly, that class is a joke.”

Hermione didn’t bother to lower her voice. Neville _ssh_ -ed her, looking around nervously as he did so, as though expecting Quirrell to pop up on the spot and take more House points.

Transfiguration class, with Professor McGonagall, was much better. The professor was a competent teacher, who explained the basic concepts behind transfiguration reasonably well, and performed each spell step-by-step so that the students could see what she was doing. 

Also, during her introductory speech she turned her desk into a pig and back again, which seemed to greatly impress all of the students, even the ones raised in magical homes.

Their first task in class was to turn a matchstick into a needle. This was the first time Hermione had tried to cast a spell through her wand, and her power didn’t much like the sensation of being channelled through a small and rather fragile focus – not when Hermione was used to simply using her power without one.

Hermione transfigured her matchstick on the third attempt. 

“How did you do that?” Neville asked, looking amazed. “It took you hardly any time at all!” He looked down at his own matchstick, poking it gently with his wand as he muttered the incantation. Nothing happened.

“You need to visualise the transfiguration inside your mind. As you speak the incantation, you need to imagine the matchstick turning all thin and silver and pointy, like a needle is. Also, your wand movement isn’t quite right, and you’re not enunciating clearly enough. Try doing _this_ ,” said Hermione, and she demonstrated the wand movement for Neville.

Hermione watched closely, and this time, when Neville tried to transfigure his needle, his wand movements and incantations were acceptable. But nothing happened.

Hermione frowned, her gaze travelling to his wand.

“Neville… you were assigned that wand by a qualified wand-maker, weren’t you?”

Neville mumbled something.

“Speak up,” said Hermione.

“I said, it was my Dad’s. My Gran gave it to me.”

Hermione tutted, and made a mental note to put something about that into the Howler she planned on sending to Neville’s grandmother, as well.

“That simply won’t do,” she said. “The wand chooses the wizard, and this wand clearly hasn’t chosen you.”

Neville’s shoulders slumped, but Hermione was already raising her hand.

“Yes, Miss Granger?” asked Professor McGonagall.

“Professor, Neville’s having trouble with his wand,” said Hermione, ignoring Neville’s wide eyes and the way he was shaking his head. “He wasn’t fitted for one – it belonged to one of his relatives, and it just doesn’t want to work for him.”

Professor McGonagall frowned.

“Please demonstrate, Mr Longbottom.”

His wand hand shaking slightly, Neville performed the wand movement and incantation to no effect.

“Yes, I see what you mean. I assume it was your grandmother who gave you your current wand, Longbottom?”

“Y-yes, Professor.”

Professor McGonagall’s lips pursed.

“I will contact Augusta,” she said, and Neville looked panicked. “Oh, don’t look so worried, Longbottom. Your grandmother should know better, as I will not hesitate to remind her. Sentiment has its place, but not when it causes an obstruction.”

“Gran’s going to kill me,” Neville whispered, as Professor McGonagall moved to check on another student’s work.

‘Don’t be silly,” said Hermione. “This isn’t your fault, it’s hers, and I’m sure that Professor McGonagall will sort it all out.”

But Neville only put his face in his hands, and didn’t say much else for the rest of the lesson.


	5. Snape Makes a Tactical Error

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings in end chapter notes.

** Chapter Five **

****

Neville didn’t speak to Hermione for the rest of the morning. 

While Hermione understood that he was worried about his Gran’s reaction to being told off by Professor McGonagall, she couldn’t help but feel irritated that Neville couldn’t see that this was really for the best.

So once she’d eaten her lunch, Hermione went to where Neville was sitting and said, “It’s for the best, you know. Using a wand that doesn’t suit you could cause you permanent harm, in the long run. Surely it’s worth risking your grandmother’s displeasure to achieve your potential as a wizard?”

Neville did not look cheered by Hermione’s words. Instead he looked even more miserable.

“Just… go away, please?”

Hermione huffed, but left him alone. She began to walk away from the Gryffindor table.

“She’s a nightmare,” Ron muttered to Dean, a little too loudly. Mid-stride, Hermione spun on her heel to face the two boys, who looked suddenly apprehensive.

“Yes I am,” said Hermione, her expression fierce. “And don’t you forget it!”

Turning away, Hermione went back to walking away from the Gryffindor table. Murmurs followed in her wake.

Done with lunch as she was, Hermione decided to investigate the library. It turned out to be massive, filled from floor to ceiling with heavy wooden bookcases, stacked to full capacity with books and scrolls.

Hermione’s little bibliophile heart _soared_ , but– 

“Really, hasn’t anyone in this castle heard of the Dewey Decimal System?” she muttered.

There were footsteps behind her, and Hermione turned in an instant, words of power on her lips and very nearly ready to be spoken. Hermione bit them back.

There was a perfectly ordinary woman in glasses standing behind Hermione, looking at her with grudging approval.

“I’ve been saying that to the Headmaster for years,” said the woman. 

Hermione took a moment to study the newcomer. She came to a conclusion.

“Are you the librarian?”

The woman smiled.

“My name is Madam Pince, and yes.” She gave Hermione a thoughtful look. “It’s not many students who would be in here on the first day, before even their homework has been assigned. _Especially_ not amongst the first-years.”

“Yes, well, I’m accustomed to having books instead of friends,” said Hermione, too quickly to come across as anything but flippant.

But Madam Pince seemed to take Hermione at her word regardless, because she nodded once.

“In that case, I assume that you know how to care for them. Ravenclaw?”

“Gryffindor,” said Hermione, making a face.

Madam Pince’s eyebrows rose, but all she said was, “Well, I expect you to do better by my books than your housemates usually do.”

“Of course,” said Hermione, putting up her chin. “I have nothing but the greatest respect for such sources of knowledge.”

“Then welcome to the Hogwarts library.” said Madam Pince, and after a moment, turned and disappeared among the bookshelves.

Hermione had a little less than half an hour before her next class. She decided to explore the whole of the library first of all, and look at the books later.

The library was large, even for a library, and it took a good twenty minutes to note where all the different sections were. With a regretful sigh, Hermione left the library and headed down into the dungeons for Potions.

It was there that, for the first time, she met Professor Snape in his official capacity.

It was loathing at first sight.

Professor Snape, for whatever reason, seemed to absolutely _hate_ Harry Potter for no reason at all, which made zero sense to Hermione. The boy hadn’t even been here twenty-four hours, yet; what could he possibly have done to earn Snape’s ire?

But the so-called _Professor_ narrowed in on Harry all the same, his black eyes glittering with palpable malice, and asked question after question that Harry was unable to answer – and for good reason.

Hermione watched in glowering fury as Snape humiliated Harry, because the answers that Snape was demanding _were not_ in the first year textbook. Perhaps in next year’s textbook, or even third year’s, but certainly not in the one that Harry might actually have read.

Hermione raised her hand.

“ _What?_ ” snapped Snape, turning a scathing glare in her direction that probably would have frightened any genuine child.

But Hermione had seen the War in Heaven, and the Hell that had followed it – one vicious-tempered mortal man was nothing to frighten her.

“The answers to your questions aren’t in the first-year textbook,” she said, leaving off the title of _Professor_ , because like Quirrell, Snape didn’t deserve it.

Snape looked Hermione over from head to toe, his gaze lingering on her bushy hair. His lip curled. 

“Read it cover to cover, have we?” he said; softly, but with no less malice than before. “Trying to compensate for something, perhaps?”

The Slytherins all sniggered audibly. Hermione allowed herself a thin, vicious smile, and met Snape’s eyes.

“Is that _your_ excuse? Or is tormenting a child simply part of your usual repertoire?”

The laughter abruptly cut out – as one, the class _gasped_.

_ Something _ lashed out in that moment, aiming for the dark place behind Hermione’s eyes where thoughts were formed. It ran straight into the outer layers of Hermione's shields, the ones before the churning walls of fire and rage, and bounced off.

Hermione watched as Snape frowned.

So he was a Legimens. _Fantastic_. 

Snape’s visage was filled with anger, but there was also appraisal there, cold and calculating as he looked down at her. 

She watched as he took a step closer, and never looked away from his eyes.

“What is your name?” Snape asked, still in that deceptively soft, utterly dangerous voice.

“Hermione Granger,” said Hermione.

“Detention then, Hermione Granger.” He slowly sounded out the syllables of her name. “Come to my office after your final class of the day.”

Abruptly he whirled to face the rest of the class, and began barking orders at them. The class scrambled to find brewing partners and begin preparing the potion described on the blackboard.

Somehow, in the midst of people gravitating towards each other and partnering up, Neville had ended up without a brewing partner. Since everyone else looked too terrified of risking Snape’s displeasure to partner up with Hermione, she didn’t have a partner either.

Neville looked vaguely horrified when Hermione took the desk next to his. But he also looked resigned, as though he didn’t expect anything better from life. It irked Hermione rather.

“Don’t worry, you can go back to not talking to me later,” said Hermione, already beginning to line up the ingredients for Boil-Curing Potion in the order that she and Neville would need them.

For some reason, this statement made Neville flush.

“Sorry,” he muttered. Hermione glanced at him.

“Whatever for?”

“No _chatting!_ ” said Snape, swooping across the room to glare down at Hermione and Neville with malevolent intent. 

Hermione ignored him, and began crushing the beetle carapaces into a fine powder with the flat of her potions knife. Neville, however, went _eep_ , and looked terrified of Snape.

“Dice those,” said Hermione, gesturing to the pile of ingredients she’d already placed in front of Neville.

“ _Dice?_ ”

“Really, Longbottom,” said Snape with a sneer. “Did you come into this classroom without so much as a _glance_ at the assigned textbook?”

Hermione, just for a moment, allowed herself to picture in her mind’s eye all the imaginative things she could do to Snape, with her potions knife alone.

She stifled a wistful sigh, and began to explain the term to Neville. 

“To dice something means–”

“Silence!” Snape snapped, and looked at Neville. Neville gulped audibly, and Snape smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile. 

“When something is _diced_ , Longbottom,” said Snape, “it means that it has been cut into small, uniformly-sized cubes. Do you understand even that much, or should I use smaller words?”

Neville hunched in on himself, and Snape went, “ _Well?_ ”

“N-no sir,” said Neville, staring at the surface of his desk. “I understand, sir.”

“Wonders will never cease,” said Snape, still smiling that nasty smile, and turned to swoop down on another terrified student.

Hermione paused for a long moment, her knife suspended over the remainder of the beetle carapaces. 

“ _You idiotic child_ –” Snape began to berate his latest target, looming over them, and ignoring their stammered apologies to verbally tear them to shreds.

And Hermione’s temper went from white-hot fury to deathly calm as she decided on a course of action.

Hermione resumed crushing the beetle carapaces, and bent over her desk so that she was the picture of studious concentration.

In the same instant, the back of Snape’s robes caught fire. He was too busy insulting the student in front of him to notice.

One by one, the students behind Snape stopped what they were doing to stare at the flames licking their way up Snape’s robes. But they were all too afraid to say anything, until at last the blonde Slytherin boy who had fought with Harry Potter before the Sorting glanced up, did a double-take, and blurted, “Professor, you’re on fire!”

What happened next happened all at once, very quickly.

Snape went, “ _What?_ ”

In the same moment he followed the boy’s gaze, and swore loudly as he noticed that the back of his robes were merrily burning. 

As swift as a striking snake, he went for his wand and began casting a range of possible counter-spells.

But the fire that Hermione had conjured was no ordinary fire. It resisted Snape’s attempts to put it out, wreathing into a new shape that looked awfully like a small, horned dragon, with flickering embers for eyes.

It was at this point Hermione finally looked up from her work, and made a show of gasping loudly.

She jumped to her feet and shouted, “Don’t just sit there! You, blonde boy! Go find another teacher!”

Then she whirled on the rest of the class.

“Everyone out!” The class gaped at her. Hermione tried again. “This classroom is full of volatile ingredients! Do you all wish to explode? _Move!_ ”

That was enough. The children fled the room while Snape cursed and battled the fiery dragon wrapped around him, sweat beading on his forehead.

Hermione paused a moment on the threshold to admire Snape’s rising desperation, before joining everyone else in the hallway.

The blonde Slytherin boy was nowhere to be seen, so presumably he’d gone to fetch a teacher as Hermione had recommended.

Hermione stood with the panicking children and counted out thirty seconds. Then she stuck a hand in her pocket and quietly snapped her fingers.

Twenty seconds after that, Snape staggered out into the corridor with no sign of the hellish flames that had surrounded him a moment earlier, but with blistering skin, and bellowed, “POTTER!”

The crowd around Harry immediately parted as people fought to get out of Snape’s path. Harry’s eyes slowly widened as he got a good look at Snape’s enraged expression.

Snape appeared angry beyond all reason as stepped forward, going for his wand.

Hermione sighed, and pulled her own wand out of her pocket.

“ _Invict_ –” Snape began to snarl.

But Hermione levelled her wand at the charred remains of Snape’s robes, and spoke a single word.

“ _Stupefy!_ ”

Snape slumped to the floor, his wand hitting the stonework with a clatter.

Hermione noticed that everyone else was staring at her.

“What?” she asked. “Someone had to do _something_ , honestly.”

Just then Professor McGonagall rounded the corner of the corridor at a dead run, saw Snape unconscious on the floor and surrounded by staring students, and went, “My word! What in _Merlin’s_ _name–?_ ”

As the students exploded into chatter, everyone trying to explain to the Professor at once, Hermione leaned against the wall behind her and congratulated herself on a deed well done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hermione sets Snape on fire, he is mildly burned. Nothing magic can't fix, but yeah.


End file.
